WAITING - by Robert Frost

 

WAITING  by  Robert Frost Afield at dusk What things for dream there are when specter-like,Moving amond tall haycocks lightly piled,I enter alone upon the stubbled filed,From which the laborers' voices late have died,And in the antiphony of afterglowAnd rising full moon, sit me downUpon the full moon's side of the first haycockAnd lose myself amid so many alike. I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour,Preventing shadow until the moon prevail;I dream upon the nighthawks peopling heaven,Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar;And on the bat's mute antics, who would seemDimly to have made out my secret place,Only to lose it when he pirouettes,On the last swallow's sweep; and on the raspIn the abyss of odor and rustle at my back,That, silenced by my advent, finds once more,After an interval, his instrument,And tries once--twice--and thrice if I be there;And on the worn book of old-golden songI brought not here to read, it seems, but holdAnd freshen in this air of withering sweetness;But on the memor of one absent, most,For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.